


Would You Offer Your Throat

by one_of_those_crushing_scenes



Series: Mind Games [4]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Mockingbird (Comic)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Dom Bobbi Morse, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Glove Kink, Paddling, Porn with Feelings, Submissive Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 04:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_of_those_crushing_scenes/pseuds/one_of_those_crushing_scenes
Summary: He whispers something in her ear which makes her eyes go wide and her mouth go dry, and she nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I can do that.”





	Would You Offer Your Throat

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during Chapter 10 of [Who Do You Think You Are](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12084837/). Tldr: 616-canon-compliant through sometime around 2014, Bobbi and Clint just got back together after talking out a lot of their issues.
> 
> Title is from the song “You Took The Words Right Out of My Mouth” by Meat Loaf, because sometimes cheesy 70s rock is exactly what you need.
> 
> Comments are love.
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything I know about BDSM, I learned from the internet. It goes without saying, but please do careful research before trying this at home.

“ _I want you to dominate me._ ”

Nearly a day later, the words still echo in Bobbi's head, the memory replaying itself in a loop. The raspy tone of his voice, the tickle of his breath on her ear...which is why she finds herself in an adult toy store downtown in the middle of the afternoon, while everyone else is out training, with a handwritten shopping list and a fistful of cash that she can't really justify spending. It's kind of a shame—she has some of this stuff at home, and it hasn't been used in a while, but she's not about to drive two hours each way to an apartment that might be monitored by people from either side of the law who want to control her.

It takes a few different stops until she crosses everything off the list, but in the end, she's successful. She brings it all back to the apartment in an inconspicuous gym bag, drops it next to the bed, and gets changed for dinner at Rhodey’s aunt's house, all before everyone else returns from wherever they've gone.

Hours later, she locks the bedroom door and turns to Clint, who's sitting down on the bed, pulling off his sweater. “Get up,” she says. 

His eyes shift back and forth like he's not sure whether she's talking to him or someone else in the room. “What’d I do?”

Without answering his question, she raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms. “Who told you to take off your shirt?” And it takes him a few seconds, but when it suddenly sinks in that tonight is the night, his face lights up with giddy excitement, and he quickly stands up and fixes his clothing. 

Usually, he's not at all passive in bed. Their first time together, he literally spent hours exploring her body, figuring out exactly what she liked and how she liked it. Later, he always put his findings to good use, driving her out of her mind her every single time. She has no reason to believe that he's any different with the other partners he's had, and she's overheard enough innuendo to confirm that suspicion.

It was about half a year into their marriage when he first admitted that sometimes he had fantasies of being dominated, giving away every iota of control, letting her do whatever she wanted to him. From there, it took a ton of questions and lots of research together until they finally reached a place where they were comfortable experimenting. He’d never mentioned these desires to anyone before her, and she doubts he’s been emotionally close enough with anyone else since. The fact that he requested it now, after they’ve been apart for so long, makes her think that he’s been starving for it.

“Safe word?” she asks. “You good with traffic light colors, or do you want to do something else?”

“No, traffic light colors are fine.” Red, yellow, and green: to stop immediately, to ease up, or to indicate that everything is great, in respective order.

“Traffic light colors it is.” She walks up to him, swinging her hips, and kisses him on the cheek. Taking his wrists in her hands, she brings them together in front of his body and holds them out as if she's about to cuff him, but then she positions his arms by his sides, rolling open his fingers and pressing his palms against his outer thighs to make it clear that he should keep them there. “I'm going to change in the bathroom. You'll stay still while I'm gone, all right? Don't move a muscle.”

He turns his head to watch her walk away, so she swings her hips a little wider. Since he can't see her face now, she finally gives in to the huge grin she's been fighting off, and once she's closed the bathroom door behind her, she turns on the water and lets out a peal of nervous laughter.

She can do this.

That's her mantra as she changes into the makeshift dominatrix outfit she put together that afternoon. Being on the run, having to pay for all purchases in cash, meant that she had to compromise with some of the items on her list, which is why she's making due with a black cotton tank dress from her suitcase instead of actual fetish wear, but, hey, at least she's comfortable. And she did manage to get a steal on a pair of faux leather gloves that cover her elbows, the material so soft and buttery that she can hardly believe they're not actual lambskin. It gives a new meaning to the expression _handling him with kid gloves_. 

The final touches to the outfit are black thigh-highs with lace trimming and a pair of ankle boots, also black. She doesn't bother with underwear; that would just get in the way.

Looking over herself in the mirror, it's clear that the outfit was cobbled together hastily, but, yeah, she looks good. She looks confident.

She feels...shaky.

They'd been married the first time they ever did this, a true power couple, leading an Avengers team out in LA. Then they’d done it two or three more times before the whole Phantom Rider mess, and once again during one of their “on” periods before she was abducted. And after she returned to Earth, the moment he'd found out she was alive, he'd fallen right back into the devoted husband role. It had taken longer for her to adjust, but they didn’t even sleep together until they had (seemingly) worked out their issues, and were (seemingly) secure in their relationship, and it was months after that before they played around like this again.

And then they broke up. For a long time. And it's hard for her to be confident about dominating him, to sell the idea that he should yield to her completely, when they've only been back together for about twenty four hours. Who is she to him, anyway?

But then again....

He asked for this. He wants this, and he wants this with her.

She straightens her back and walks out, stepping back into the bedroom where Clint is waiting. When he sees her, his mouth forms a round “o” as he looks her up and down. “Wow.” She can see his hands twitch by his side, but he doesn't step forward, doesn't open his mouth, doesn't reach out... just stands there obediently, waiting for instructions.

“ _Now_ you can take off your shirt,” she says with an easy smile.

He reaches over his head and grabs his sweater near the scruff of his neck, lifting it and the t-shirt underneath over his head. For a moment, she gets distracted by his abs. Being in the superhero business, one naturally sees plenty of chiseled abs, but sadly, most of them aren't available for tongue-tracing. These particular abs will be thoroughly tongue-traced by the time the evening is over; if there's one thing she's sure of, this is it.

She circles around him, openingly checking out his naked torso, and stops in front of him to give him further directions. “Turn around. Lean over a bit. Hands on the wall.”

He does what she tells him to, following her orders perfectly, which makes her smile. After taking a few seconds to appreciate the view, Bobbi moves over to stand beside him. Holding his hip steady with her left hand, she places her right hand on the back of his head, first nudging forward with her hand so that his head is bowed, then grasping his hair with her fingers and pulling his head back towards her. He capitulates easily, his eyes fluttering shut, and she kisses his shoulder.

“Don't move unless I tell you to.”

He isn't moving to begin with, but the giving of orders, the tone of her voice, sets the scene and helps her slip into the domme persona. Not to mention the shiver that runs through his body every time she uses this voice.

“You're so sweet,” she says into his ear, making sure to keep her voice clear, since he can’t read her lips from this angle. “You're so good. You're so goddamn precious.”

“Bobbi,” he groans, eyes still closed. 

She's takes a step back. “Take off your pants and lie down on the bed. On your front.”

He practically trips over himself obeying, and it doesn’t take long before he’s prone on the bed, naked except for his boxer briefs. His head is turned all the way towards her, watching her over his shoulder to see what her next move is. Should have gotten a blindfold while she was out; oh, well. 

Bobbi sits next to him in the bed, smoothing her fingers over his lower back, gently brushing her thumb over the base of his spine. Fine motor skills are a little awkward through the gloves, but she manages to pinch the elastic band on his underwear and starts drawing them down, revealing the globes of his buttocks, inch by inch, the flexed muscle tensing in anticipation. She pulls them all the way off his body and tosses them aside.

“Let's get you trussed up,” Bobbi says. She takes his arms again, crossing them behind his back without any resistance on his part. To get the effect she's going for, she bends his elbows slightly and crosses his hands at the wrist, just over his tailbone. Then she reaches down into the gym bag and takes one of the silk purple sashes she bought, starts wrapping it around his wrists, binding them together. She steps back when it's done, admiring the view. The bright splash of purple against his naked skin definitely adds an extra dimension to the picture. He's holding himself completely still, waiting for her touch, such a good boy. She tells him so. 

He doesn’t answer.

“You believe me, right?” she asks.

“Yeah.” But he doesn’t sound convinced. It takes him a while, sometimes, to warm up, to get him into the right frame of mind.

“Clint,” she says.

He turns his head, rests it on the pillow, looks at her. “Yeah?”

She squats down next to him, so that her face is in front of his, and says, “You know who you belong to?”

“You,” he answers, but his answer comes too quick, his grin is cocky, and there's a touch of irony in his voice. A little too self-aware, like he's reciting from a script and prompting her for the next line. Well, that won't do. 

Bobbi reaches into her gym bag and sets a few items out onto the bedside table: a jar of aloe vera lotion, a water bottle, a couple of condoms, and a brand new leather paddle, smooth and round and just the right amount of bounce when she tested it against her arm in the store. 

She can see his eyes widen as his gaze follows the paddle from the bag to the table, and she says, “Give me a color, sport.” 

“Green.” 

That’s what she thought. There’s a wooden chair over by the closer, which she goes and brings over to the bed next to him. She sits down on the chair, picks up the paddle, and places it down lengthwise across his ass, using him as a display shelf. “Who do you belong to?” she asks again.

“Y-you.”

Better. She takes the paddle, swishes it through the air. His whole body tenses up, which makes her frown. Better double-check. “Color?”

She’s not sure what answer to expect, but there’s no hesitation on his part. “Green.”

Okay, then. Just like she trusts him to let her know if he needs her to stop, she needs to trust him when he’s telling her to go ahead, and with that in mind, she raises her hand and brings the paddle down on his ass. The first spank is an appetizer, barely a sound made as the paddle glances off his skin. There’s no mistaking the hum of pleasure he lets out, so she does the same thing on the other side.

She continues with the warm-up spanks for a few minutes, getting him ready, and he keeps shifting gradually, raising his ass up a little bit more with each movement, giving her more of a surface to work with, until he's up on his knees, ass in the air, without her having said a word.

Deciding it’s time to ramp it up, she puts more power behind the next one. It bounces off of him with a loud _thwack_ , leaving behind an angry flush and causing him to cry out. She puts her free hand on his back to steady him, and puts the same heat into the next smack, on the other cheek. He cries out again, but there’s no indication that he wants to use his safe word. Keeping him grounded with her left hand on top of his joined hands, she infuses more force into the smacks afterwards, switching up the pattern so that he doesn't know what to expect, listening to his breath catch in his throat, watching the way the flesh of his bottom jogs and shakes with every strike, and enjoying the view as what starts as a blush across his cheeks turns to a deeper and deeper pink.

If she keeps going now, she'll end up breaking skin, something which neither of them are comfortable with, so she stops before his ass is completely red and sets the paddle down on the nightstand. She picks up the jar of lotion. “How are we feeling, sport?” 

He moans in response as she pulls off her left glove, unscrews the lid and dips her bare fingers into the pot, taking a dollop of lotion out and hovering her hand in the air over his poor, abused bottom. 

“You've got to use your words, sweetheart,” she says, letting the cool lotion drip onto his sore skin. When her hand makes contact, he hisses, but it doesn't take long for him to relax as she starts to rub the lotion into the angry red flush of his ass, moving in gentle circles. 

“Good,” he croaks. “Hurts a little.”

She hums approvingly, then takes more lotion and starts to work on the other cheek. When she finishes, she scoops out some more lotion and drips it along his crack, working her fingers in between the cheeks of his ass. He trembles and digs his fingers into his palms. 

“Easy there,” she says in a soothing voice.” I'm taking care of you now. My beautiful boy.”

She works the lotion into his crack and then teases two fingers against the pucker of his hole. With the other hand, she reaches for the nightstand, opens a drawer, and pulls out one of her battle staves. 

She catches him watching, his eyes impossibly wide. “I can't take that,” he says. 

“Oh, you can.” She smiles sweetly. “But not tonight.” Instead, she uses the staff to stroke him between his cheeks, from the beginning of his crack to the edge of his balls and back again. With all the lubrication, it's an easy slide, but she keeps it on the outside, even though the idea of opening him up with her fingers and lube until he's begging her to penetrate him with her weapon is delicious. 

He's whimpering and shaking at this point, and she decides it's time to turn him over. Like roasting a turkey. The thought makes her giggle. As keyed up as he is, he doesn’t even react to the sound.

Bobbi unravels the tie from around his wrists and then picks up the matching one from the bag. His hands fall to his side, and she puts her hands on his forearms and squeezes up and down to get his blood circulation back to normal.

“Onto your back,” she orders, when she's done with his arms, and he complies slowly, with unsteady arms. While he's busy turning over, she grabs her abandoned second glove and puts it back on.

“Please.” He’s shivering again, suffering at the lack of touch, so she climbs on top of him, bracketing his hips with her knees and letting the bottom of her dress brush over his belly as she leans down to kiss him. It would be so easy for her to lower her pelvis onto him, to take him inside of her—he’s so hard and she’s so slick that he would just slide right in—but no, not yet.

“Mmmm. Raise your hands over your head, love,” she says, pulling back a fraction. 

He obeys, stretching them out in a fluid movement that shows off his agility. “Love,” he murmurs, looking at her and repeating the pet name. 

“Love,” she says again, as she takes both of his wrists on her hands and kisses his knuckles. “Love _you_.” One at a time, she ties his hands to the headboard, as he tips his head back to watch her work. 

His hands secure, she reaches to the nightstand, picks up a condom and drops it on the bed next to them. Then she gets to work teasing him, crawling over his body, stroking, kissing, even some tickling. He’s most sensitive behind his knees, on the sides on his ribs, under his ears, around his belly button.

Oh, and the abs. This part is entirely for her pleasure, her one totally selfish indulgence of the evening. She sets her hands on either side of him, leans in, and licks stripes up and down, side to side, eagerly decorating his lower torso with a shiny trail of saliva. He squirms and gasps as she uses her tongue to map the valleys in between each individual muscle, the hollows of his hips, the bumps of the muscles themselves.

Finally, she moves in on his groin, cupping his balls and stroking her fingers down from there to his anus and back. His moans grow more desperate, more needy, and clear drops of precum start to appear at the tip of his penis. She winks at him, swipes the liquid off with a gloved forefinger, then brings the finger to her open mouth and licks it off.

Ugh, misstep. Note to self: fake leather looks good, feels good... tastes nasty. She has to consciously hold back a grimace; thankfully, Clint doesn't notice.

“Bobbi.” He twists in his restraints. “I can’t, I can’t take any more teasing... _please_.”

It’s a lot of work, playing this role, both physically and emotionally. She wouldn't want to do this all the time. Still, having a ripped, handsome man naked and at her mercy, falling apart under her touch, begging incoherently for something only she can provide... it's not the worst thing in the world.

Taking pity on him—and on herself—she takes the condom from where she’d set it down a minute ago, rips and drops the foil, and rolls it onto him, encircling the base of his cock with her hand once she’s done, and eyeing his length up and down. “Ready?” she asks.

In response, he bangs his head back against the mattress, once, twice, three times.

She climbs on top of him, sits up on her knees, hovering over his pelvis. “Your words, Clint.”

He groans. “ _Green_.”

That's—that's not... exactly... what she meant, but his meaning is clear. So, this is it. She lowers herself onto him, sheathing him smoothly and easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And it is—change the location, maybe their hairstyles, and this scene could almost be any old lazy Saturday a couple of years ago. She's not taking it for granted anymore.

Testing out the waters, she starts to move.

“Yes, yes, Bobbi, more.” He raises his hips to meet her, but she chastises him with a sharp slap with her palm to the side of his chest. “Oh,” he exhales, eyes closed. “I can't help myself.”

She cups his chin in her hand, tilting his head back, and steels her voice. “You absolutely can and you absolutely will.”

He opens his eyes, meeting her glance, and for a few seconds, they just look into each other's eyes, syncing up their breath, neither of them moving. Finally, he nods. “I can. I will.”

She nods back. “Yes, you will.”

So slowly she can barely take it, she starts rising up and down on his length, tightening around him so that he feels even bigger inside of her, but setting a glacial pace, just acclimating herself to having him inside of her again. 

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“So—” it comes out choked, so he clears his throat. “So good.”

She keeps moving slowly, making sure to keep his orgasm at bay. “You're so tense,” she says. “So close. You want to come, but you won't, right? You'll wait until I tell you to.” Still rocking back and forth, so slowly. She smiles at him. “You feel good, too. Thick and hard, so deep inside me, so perfect. You’re wonderful, everything I’ve ever wanted. And you're all mine.”

His eyes are wet, his breath ragged when he responds. “Yours, always.”

“I like hearing you say that,” she says, lazily stroking a hand over his midsection.

“Let me show you,” he says in response, and when she stops moving and tilts her head at him, he struggles against the ribbons holding him down and starts to babble. “Please, baby, please, untie me, I'll make it so good, make you feel so good, or... or come sit on my face, want to lick you out, taste you, please, let me touch you, I'll make it so good for you, better than you can imagine, let me make you feel good...”

She's tempted. He'll follow through on those promises if she lets him. Sometimes she suspects that he spends so much time focused on pleasing his partners in the bedroom because of a deep-seated fear of being unlovable—rooted in his terrible childhood and adolescence—that he wants to earn love from his partners by bringing them pleasure, that he's terrified that this is all he has to offer. She's not sure if he's even able to admit it to himself, but she suspects that these interludes, for him, are a form of assurance, that they help him believe that someone could love him unconditionally.

Or maybe not. Maybe he just likes it, no deep reason behind it. Either way, if he keeps talking like that, she knows she'll give in, so she leans forward and covers his mouth with her gloved palm, and says, “You don't think about that. Tonight I take care of _you_ , and I want you mindless with pleasure, so delirious that you forget both our names.” She uncovers his mouth and kisses him deeply, then sits back up. “Now, no more talk of that, or I'll take off these stockings,” smoothing her hands up her thighs, “and stuff them right into your mouth.”

When he lets out a soft cry, she can feel herself getting even wetter, the throbbing deep in her belly growing stronger, and she knows she needs to take a break to bring herself off if she's going to make this last. She slides off of him and sits up on her knees, hiking up the front of her dress so that her cunt is centered right in his line of vision. The first thing she feels is the loss of his cock inside of her, and then she sees his eyes snap right to where she wants them, between her legs. 

She keeps her dress up around her hips but uses both hands to cover her crotch, pretending at modesty, then says, “I'm going to make myself come, want to watch?”

He nods, his eyes pleading, and she lets one hand fall away, setting it on his thigh and leaning back, using him for support. 

She presses the heel of her other hand against her pubic bone, then uses her fingers to rub against her folds near her clit, bringing her a small amount of relief.

After a few minutes, she realizes she needs more, so she hooks the pointed toes of her shoes between Clint's thighs so she can support herself on her legs, freeing up her second hand. With that hand, she starts feeling herself up, hand sliding up her dress, over her midriff and up to her chest. She stretches her fingers out that she can play with both breasts simultaneously, a light touch that sends sparks of pleasure straight down her body. The square neck of her dress keeps her cleavage mostly covered, but the cotton material rubs against her nipples, hardening them to stiff, sensitive points. 

“I thought you were going to let me watch,” Clint complains. 

She gives him a look like she just remembered he was in the room. “Hmm? You want something?” 

He snorts. “Do I want something,” he repeats dryly. 

“Oh, you want to see my tits?” she teases, exaggerating her smirk. 

“Fuck yeah, baby,” he says, and when she frowns, he quickly amends that to, “please, can I please see them?” 

“Well...”

She tilts her head to the side, considering. On the one hand, the second she uncovers, she knows she’ll receive a stream of dirty talk in return, love letters to her breasts, to their shape, their weight, their softness. It’s nice to be appreciated like that.

On the other hand...

“Maybe next time.”

The groan of frustration, but especially the way he accepts it without arguing, fuels her arousal. She crosses her left hand over her chest and flicks at her right nipple, and he can’t see anything at all, not through the black fabric, but he knows his role, and he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he watches her face as she touches herself, as her gloved fingers glide smoothly through slippery folds and start circling around her clit, as the scent of her lust gets stronger, the aroma turning the air around them sweet and thick. His gaze shifts down to her pussy, watching how effectively she gets herself off and presumably taking notes for next time—it's going to be so good, and suddenly her mind replaces her fingers with his larger, calloused ones, and in her imagination it’s _him_ with his hands all over her, playing her body like a fiddle, and the pressure deep in her belly builds and builds—

She sinks back onto his cock just as it hits her, and it's—God, it's been so long since she's felt flesh and blood inside her during an orgasm, and it's so good, so satisfying, her muscles fluttering and contracting around him as the waves of bliss spread out through her entire body, all the way down to her toes. 

After the contractions have stopped, she sits there for a few seconds, just enjoying the post-orgasmic bliss. When she opens her eyes, and all she can see is Clint’s face. He’s primed for release, apparent from the dilated pupils, the parted lips, the heavy panting.

“You’re going to kill me,” he says.

Bobbi smiles at him. “Clint, honey,” she says sweetly, leaning down and stroking down his cheek, “if you want me to fuck you, all you have to do is ask.”

“Fuck me,” he says without hesitation. “God, please.”

“Okay,” she says, and she starts to move. It doesn’t take long for her to find a rhythm; rolling her hips back and up and down onto him like the sea crashing against the sand, over and over as his body starts to shake. He's breathing heavily and straining against the ties, his eyes glassy and unfocused for once in his life, and she speaks to him in a reassuring voice, “There you go, I've got you, such a good boy, come on,” and his head falls back and his arms go slack and he screams as he comes, his cock spasming inside of her and shooting off so hard she makes a note to check the condom. 

When he’s done, he’s completely wrung out, eyes half-lidded, body limp. He's a mess, his face wet with a combination of sweat and tears, his hair sticking in every direction. His mouth is open, lips pale and dry, and his tongue flicks out to try and wet them.

“Want some water?” Bobbi asks. His eyes snap to focus on her face, and he nods.

She slides off of him to retrieve the water bottle from the table, removing her gloves while she's over there, then gets a pillow under his head and helps him adjust to a more upright angle. Once he's ready, she puts the bottle up to his lips and tilts it. He fastens his lips around the opening and starts to drink. Some of the water dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, so she brings the angle down and wipes his chin.

“There you go. Drink slowly,” she says, running her fingers through his sweaty mop of hair. “You did great. You did so good.” She kisses the top of his head. “I love you so much.”

He can't respond, his mouth occupied at the moment, but the look he gives her, full of warmth and trust, says it all.

When he stops sucking down the water, she sets the bottle upright. “All done?” 

“Yeah.” He shivers, not from arousal this time. The sweat must be cooling him off. 

She unties the restraints and sits him all the way up, then wraps a sheet and blanket around his upper body. Quickly, she takes care of the condom before climbing into bed next to him, holding him over the blanket until his breathing returns to normal. He reaches for her hand, and as he recovers, his grip becomes more firm. 

Eventually, he lets out a final sigh and puts his free arm around her, mussing her hair affectionately. He laughs with a hint of relief. “You're something else, you know that?” 

“Oh my God, did I pull it off? I was so nervous.”

“Seriously?” He looks skeptical. “You were amazing. Never leave me again. I wouldn't be able to survive it.” 

She laughs and elbows him in the side. “You broke up with _me_ , you jerk.”

“Mmm, I don't think so. That doesn't sound like me.”

“Bite me.”

He playfully goes for her bare shoulder with his teeth. Laughing, she shoves him away. “Come on.”

They get into the shower then, just a quick five-minute cool-down to freshen up, and pass out shortly later on the bed, wrapped up only in their towels and blankets. She falls into an exhausted sleep, dreaming of heart-shaped bathtubs filled with champagne and purple strips of ribbon.


End file.
